The Conquerors
by Bladex1200
Summary: A ragtag band wants to rule the world. What could possibly go wrong? Featuring Napoleon, Catherine, and Roosevelt.
1. The Cease-fire

**Author Disclaimer: **The _Civilization_ series is the property of Firaxis. I merely play their wonderful games.

* * *

"Continue shelling!"

The order preceded the angry mutterings of tired, soaked soldiers. The men's weary limbs could almost be heard creaking as they loaded the cannonballs, priming the guns to fire. They had been shelling Berlin for days to attempt to break down the formidable defenses its troops and citizenry had constructed. And, from the subtle inflections and tones that resonated off of the order, it seemed as if the bombardments would continue until either the Germans came out to meet them or the city was reduced to rubble.

* * *

Napoleon paced incessantly within his magnificent palace. Crates surrounded the usually-empty hall, as his home had been relocated to Amiens to reduce the maintenance costs that had been crippling his dreams of world conquest. Apparently, the bureaucracy spent less when he was within earshot, no doubt because they feared witnessing one of his infamous rants. Still, he missed the smell the ocean had imbued upon his palace when he'd been in Paris. The lack of recognizable architecture - Amiens was missing his cherished Stonehenge and Oracle - did little to improve his mood. As he approached one end of the hallway, his pacing was interrupted by the loud squeaking of the door hinges at the opposite end, where his advisers kept their offices. A small head poked through the thin opening.

"King Napoleon," his voice wavered, "Queen Catherine is demanding you meet with her at once. She claims the matter is of utmost importance."

"Tell her I am occupied," Napoleon gritted his teeth in response. Would the insolent Russian not learn to leave him be during his military campaigns?

"She says she will break off our alliance if you do not meet with her immediately," the adviser's face went white as he mumbled the end of the sentence.

The hallway went silent for a moment. The king stretched his arms, and his adviser feared he might turn around and hit him in the face. Such personal violence had become a staple of the French king in recent years, though strangely it only extended to those he attended to in person. The French subjects were spared his rage for some strange reason.

Napoleon's face twisted into a vicious grin as he turned to his adviser, "Send her in."

"Shall she meet you in the tea room or-" his adviser began.

"She'll meet me right here!" Napoleon snapped, "Now get out of my sight!"

The stouter man yelped and ran off, at once feeling both angry at Catherine for putting him through that and sorry that she would need to deal with Napoleon at such a moment. The king simply continued pacing, his shined military boots making clacking noises at constant intervals. Years of military life alongside his men during conquests in India and Babylon had set a deep marching rhythm in his blood, and his extravagant life in the palace had done little to undo old habits.

Queen Catherine was perhaps the only other world leader Napoleon had not set eyes on for conquest. Roosevelt was a different matter - the ocean that separated America and France served to ease tensions between the two and their alliance existed mainly out of convenience. Little military assistance had come to fruition for either side, though trade in technologies, resources, and gold had flowed steadily between the two and kept relations at an all-time high. That, and Napoleon was fascinated with Roosevelt's Buddhist practices. The meditations that the prime minister did to keep himself youthful were something the king himself considered doing in his spare time, if only because Roosevelt claimed they also improved his focus and relaxed him.

Catherine, on the other hand, was allied with Napoleon not out of convenience but a grudging respect. After the king had waged a bloody war to take Novgorod and Rostov with little success, he conceded Catherine's mastery of the axe and spear far outweighed his own formidable sword and horseman army. Somehow, this turned from merely being impressed to somehow respecting and almost liking the Russian queen. Anyone who had the gall and wit to stand up to France and live to tell the tale was a worthy ally in his book.

Of course, Catherine didn't see the situation quite the same way Napoleon did. Wary after his repeated attempts to bring Russia under the French flag, she rejected repeated entreaties for open borders and trade until eventually Napoleon's bull-headed attitude paid off. Initial cautious contact and safe trades gave way to genuine friendship and military support. Soon, they stood side-by-side on the battlefield. He assisted her first conquest - England, thus eliminating her despised rival Elizabeth - and she in turn assisted him with Germany's allies, the Aztecs and the Romans. Neither Augustus nor Montezuma could dissuade her from working with Napoleon, despite their cautionary claims that his insatiable thirst for power would one day prove his undoing. Such claims were made as they were approaching the chopping block, so Catherine took them with a grain of salt. Still, a tiny voice from the very edge of her consciousness couldn't help but ask, "Could they be right?"

The beloved Queen of Russia made a majestic entrance into the hall. Well, it would've been majestic except that she was blocked by a crate unwisely set in front of the door, so she shimmied through the narrow opening rather than marching as she'd intended. Smoothing her military uniform, she smiled as the numerous medals gleamed beneath her hand. Realizing Napoleon was ignoring her, she strode to the other end of the room at marching pace and tapped him on the shoulder.

"What!? I told you to tell her to meet me in here!" the king of France turned, and Catherine stepped back in shock. His hair, smooth and arranged in the back, was mussed-up in the front. His face, though it always had a few creases, seemed to be lined with wrinkles and his eyes harbored deep bags beneath them. Clearly the man hadn't bothered to sleep or, upon further reflection on the horrible odor emanating from his person, take a bath. Catherine's eyes widened and her mouth hinged open, though she realized how she must look and composed herself, not wishing to offend the king.

An awkward silence festered.

"Oh, it's you," Napoleon said. Though his words broke the silence, much to Catherine's relief, she couldn't help but cringe as the usually-proud and boisterous king deflated. Remembering why she'd made the dreary journey from Moscow to Amiens - stopping by Paris because, much to her annoyance, Napoleon had neglected to inform her of his intent to move - Catherine quickly began speaking. She hoped talking about business would perk the king up and get him out of the worrying slump he was experiencing.

"I'm sorry I threatened to break off our alliance," she began, "But we do need to talk. I've been reconsidering your supply of horses for my excess food resources, and I-"

"If you wish to cancel the deal, you may do so," he turned away, his shoulders slumping as he leaned against a huge, arched window, "My cities are more than healthy with the new aqueducts and the seafood I've begun harvesting off of Calcutta."

"Oh, thank you," Catherine raised an eyebrow. This must be worse than she thought - usually he would argue over even the simplest of deals. She continued, "I'm also here to inform you that that Tokugawa is being a pest - he's stationed hordes of swordsmen on my borders and is demanding tribute with the threat of war."

"Catherine, you know full well I cannot commit anything to fighting Japan," Napoleon's voice almost seemed strained, as if simply telling her his opinion of things was too much for him, "Bismarck is still in the way of our total control of the western continent. Once he is eliminated I assure you all my forces will march eastward to assist you."

"I cannot wait that long," she replied, "Call off this senseless war. You know Bismarck is willing to give you everything for peace - let him become your vassal! All he has is Berlin and Stuttgart! He's not a threat!"

"He's a threat so long as he exists!" the words came out viciously, and suddenly he felt remorseful, adding, "Sorry. I've been on edge all week."

"Napoleon," Catherine's voice was soothing, "Please. My military is still recovering from the Aztecs and the Romans. We cannot hope stem the Japanese tide, especially not if their legendary swordsmen and samurai are brought to full force. You know my men are weary - they'll break ranks and flee if I force them to stand their ground against fresh troops. Russia needs you."

Napoleon's eyes shined violently as he whipped himself around, and for a brief moment Catherine feared that Augustus and Montezuma had been right to condemn him as a madman with delusions of impossible grandeur. He took two heaving, deep breaths, as if simply considering the idea of sparing the Germans would strangle the very life out of him. But Catherine knew she'd won. His eyes seemed to lose some of the fire that characterized his personality. Then, his shoulder slumped even lower and he accepted defeat. Nodding wordlessly at Catherine, he turned away once more and looked out at Amiens. Catherine put a hand on his shoulder gently, but he shrugged it off.

"My father was right," Napoleon muttered, "My dreams are flights of fancy... Go tell Goddard to send diplomatic missives to Bismarck. I'll send the cease-fire telegraph to the troops myself."

"Thank you for seeing sense," she turned toward the door and walked slowly, feeling as though she'd permanently ruined their alliance, not to mention their personal friendship. She hadn't meant to harm the man, but his ridiculous dreams of conquering the continent were quickly crashing into the reality that his campaigns had exhausted her military as well as his own, not to mention making enemies out of the fearful Japanese and Byzantines. As she shimmied through the door once more, she took one last look at the French king. He seemed almost lonely, as if all his friends had gone and he was left to pick up the pieces. She turned to the stout man who'd been fearfully standing behind the door the entire time, and relayed Napoleon's orders. Then, she left without further incident, her carriage waiting to whisk her off to Moscow - another grueling five day journey with only two stops. Perhaps, she mused, this was her punishment for forcing Napoleon's hand. Her back and shoulders would certainly not forgive her.

* * *

Roosevelt sat within his office, penning the final orders to his troops. Upon hearing of the plight of Catherine, he quickly assembled his riflemen and cavalry to prepare for the long ocean voyage westward to assist the beleaguered Russians. His men would assault Tokugawa from the east, threatening his capital, in the hope that the Japanese king would call off his samurai and swordsman armies amassing on Catherine's border. If he couldn't stop Tokugawa's western march, he could at least cripple his infrastructure and make the man reconsider a Russian invasion.

"Send this to General Jeanne D'Arc immediately. Tell her she and her men ship out tomorrow," he handed a carefully-folded piece of paper to one of his aides. The boy saluted the prime minister before running off, leaving Roosevelt's office empty. He called out for another aide, and a tall, muscled man came running to his side. Getting up from his chair, he threw his arm over the aide and told him to take him to the dining hall, and then a quiet shuffling of feet ensued as the prime minister was dragged out of the office.

Shifting his weight off of his arm, he took a seat in the dining hall and awaited the meal to be presented before him. His new chef was recommended by Napoleon himself - the man, for all his faults, had impeccable taste - and he was rather excited to sample what sort of recipes the man would be bringing over from what was formerly Rome.

"Focus on the small pleasures," he told himself, "Relax."

The servants came out bearing dishes and utensils alike, delicious odors wafting from the covered plates. As Roosevelt's mouth watered, he quickly became confused as a telegraph transcript was set out before him. Ignoring the enticing food for a moment, he picked up the paper and unfolded it.

"Roosevelt," it stated, "Calling off Berlin siege. Sending troops to assault Tokugawa. Advise doing the same. Do not trust Justinian - allied with him. Napoleon."

Roosevelt couldn't help but give a small smile. Catherine had finally broken through to Napoleon and made him see reason. And, of course, he himself had made sure to think one step ahead concerning sending troops. With all this out of the way, he could enjoy dinner in peace. The chef had come out to see why he had not started eating, and upon seeing Roosevelt put the paper down he introduced his first dish.

"Saltimbocca Alla Romana," the chef beamed, lifting the silver plate lid himself, "Veal and ham - forgive me, but I could not procure any prosciutto - and sage in a roll, cooked in a butter and marsala reduction. Buon appetito!"

The prime minister grinned at him, "A wonderful choice."

He ate voraciously, and the chef seemed more than a little amused at the lack of table manners the supposedly-cultured prime minister of America displayed.

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**Author Note: **Review, please! I'm honestly not sure where to take it from here - figured it would be a one-shot before I added Roosevelt's POV into the mix.


	2. Subterfuge

**Author Disclaimer: **The _Civilization_ series is the property of Firaxis. I merely play their wonderful games.

* * *

Napoleon found himself wearing out his beloved boots faster than he'd expected. The heels had already been ground down almost a quarter of an inch from his constant pacing, and he paused at increasingly close intervals to inspect the heels for further wear. The wait was killing him, despite his knowledge that the telegraph system was instantaneous and if his troops had any information to relay to him, he'd receive it at a moment's notice. He found himself staring at the door leading to his adviser officers almost constantly, waiting for the telegraph officer on duty to burst in at any moment and deliver either news of triumph or tribulation.

It had been two weeks since the Franco-German Ceasefire had gone into effect. He'd spent most of the first week discussing surrender and vassalage terms with Bismarck in Stuttgart, though an impartial onlooker might've described the proceedings more along the lines of Napoleon making demands that Bismarck unwillingly capitulated to. The German king had made it increasingly clear that while he had no choice in the matter, he certainly was not going to become Napoleon's lapdog. Eventually, the two had settled upon the vassalage of the German Empire to France, in exchange for Napoleon sparing both Berlin and Stuttgart. In a surprising move that seemed out-of-place compared to his usual stubborn hatred of the surrender terms, Bismarck took the initiative and had insisted upon allowing Napoleon access to his military - meager as it was - to assist with defending the Russians. Bismarck claimed it was a show of goodwill from the German people to their betters, but the glint in his eye told Napoleon that he had other plans. He flatly denied the offer.

Following the negotiations, Napoleon and his advisers had made haste to Amiens to coordinate the transportation of much of the French military to the Japanese-Russian border. Though rail lines had been prototyped and the Development Ministry had begun issuing construction orders to workers, almost all of the French transportation network was hopelessly mired in roads. Worse still, while the roads in major cities such as Paris and Amiens were paved and in good condition, the roads linking France and Russia were little more than muddy trails, sometimes with new tree growth blocking key supply routes. Napoleon decided to get a head start on deploying his forces - tired and disgruntled as they were - to the front lines in order to make up for the transportation delays he knew would inevitably occur.

That had all been a week-and-a-half ago. Now, at midnight, with only a few candles illuminating the hall before him, the king stood in waiting. His troops should have arrived in the forts lining the border. Catherine called it her impenetrable virginal wall - and Napoleon could only roll his eyes at such a tasteless joke. The virginal part was not lost on him, however. The forts were fresh and had yet to be properly tested and evaluated. Tokugawa would be giving them a baptism in fire. If the lines fell, Moscow was only around five days march from the border. Russia would be dealt a humiliating, crippling blow.

"Sir," the voice of the midnight telegraph officer awoke Napoleon from his trance. Realizing he'd been staring out the window at an almost-invisible Amiens, Napoleon composed himself and turned toward the man. He handed him a long, folded slip of paper before saluting and departing for his post once more. Napoleon briefly stared at the folded sheet before deciding that he might as well read it. If the news was bad, he reasoned, better he know now and plan ahead than put it off for tomorrow. That was the whole reason he was up, anyways, and hadn't showered and slept. Catherine would be furious if she found out he'd put off basic toiletries in favor of waiting for a slip of paper.

"Napoleon," the note read, "Troops arrived. Holding at border. Will receive further news tomorrow. Go to bed. I know you're still awake. Cathy."

He snorted. Catherine should have known better than to sign her name in such a cavalier way. It was unbefitting of a queen, he decided. Then again, Catherine had never been one for obeying formalities and putting on airs. Folding the paper once more, he slipped it into an inner pocket within his military jacket and left the hallway.

Approaching his bedroom, he rubbed his eyes and mechanically went through the motions: taking off his hat, before carefully setting it unto a bust of Augustus Caesar, slipping out of his military clothes and arranging them in his closet, and running a bath for himself. He figured it would be better to smell clean and look tired, since he knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night.

As he lay languishing within the bath, the tension seeping out of his body, he began to think about calming things. He remembered the vacation he'd taken in America the year before, following his victories in Rome and Tenochtitlan. Roosevelt had set him up with a small, discreet bungalow in New York, one of Roosevelt's prized sub-tropical, southern cities. The time in the sun had done him good, and he distinctly remembered the Royal Court complimenting his youthful appearance and bronze tan upon his return to Paris. Those had been the days - no stress, no yelling, just simple relaxation in a hammock, the soothing sounds of the ocean inviting him to sleep forever. He almost considered abdicating the throne and handing it off to one of his relatives, having realized an almost perfect life in the Americas.

Lost in the sands of New York, the French king failed to hear the frantic knocking outside his bedroom door. The yell of one of his aides snapped him out of his daydream, and he quickly drained the bath and dried himself off. Wrapping his wet body within a gold and purple trim bathrobe, he walked barefoot to the door, opening it with an irritated expression. Either his adviser had nothing of major importance to tell him, in which case he had interrupted his bath for no reason, or bad news had come from Moscow. Good news, in Napoleon's opinion, was not news at all.

"My king," the aide bowed as Napoleon unlocked and opened the door, "I bring grave news from the prime minister of America."

Napoleon stood in the doorway, confused, before turning to the side and allowing his aide in, asking, "What could he possibly need? He's got control of an entire continent - no enemies on either side."

"Sir," the aide unfolded a telegraph transcript, "You should probably read it yourself. You know him better than I."

Snatching the transcript in his still-damp hands, the king dismissed his aide before locking the door once more, tossing the paper carelessly onto his bed. If the American wanted his help, he'd need to be polite and wait for him to finish his evening routine. Deciding he wasn't in the mood to start his bath once more, Napoleon changed into his nightclothes, all the while staring at his hat upon the Augustus Caesar bust. The bust itself had somehow become angled to face him, and he couldn't help but feel as though the haughty look chiseled in stone was mocking him.

Finally slipping into bed, Napoleon once more unfolded the paper and began reading.

"Napoleon," the paper said, "Tokugawa's espionage network more effective than predicted. Hid almost seventeen divisions of troops from spies. Also, spies intercepted telegraph message from Justinian intended for Tokugawa. Reproduced message below:

_Tokugawa. Been in-touch with Cathy._"

Napoleon paused. What had Catherine been doing behind his back?

"_She agreed to terms. Stated that Napoleon had sent the bulk of his military to your borders. Cathy's armies will open fire on French troops as soon as your 'invasion' begins. Eliminate them. The combined power of all three of us will topple the arrogant Frenchman's empire. Good luck. Justinian._

Don't come to any conclusions. Still unsure if telegraph is truthful or an intentional lie. Keep an eye on Catherine. My troops deployed on Eastern Japanese Seaboard yesterday. Fighting appears intense. May have to siege capital. Will inform you of any spy updates. Roosevelt."

Napoleon's face went red, and he gritted his teeth. So that had been the Russian minx's power-play. Almost leaping out of bed, he swiped his hat off of the bust, nearly toppling it, and set it upon his wet hair. Not bothering with the rest of his uniform, he donned a pair of furry slippers before storming out of his room, toward his adviser's offices.

Slamming the hallway door open, he stood confused for a moment, staring into the empty hall, before realizing it was a little past midnight and none of his advisers would be awake. In a fit of rage, he grabbed one of the chairs - a period piece beloved by his Minister of Domestic Affairs - and smashed it against a random aide's desk. He grunted as he brought the chair down upon the helpless table, repeating the motion until the chair in his hands broke into pieces. Dropping the remains, he fell upon his knees and punched the wood floor until his knuckles were red with blood and horrible gashes. Never had he been so horribly betrayed, not even when his Minister of Foreign Affairs had leaked his plans of world domination to the Indians, igniting his first major war.

Realizing with disgust what a pathetic, whiny child he was being, Napoleon got up. Careful not to let anymore blood drip onto the floorboards, he made his way back to his room and washed his hands in the porcelain basin. After he was sure his wound were clean, he fetched some linen wrappings inside one of the numerous ivory-handle cabinets that adorned his washroom before carefully bandaging his hands. He'd let his emotions go too far - even farther than his usual fits of rage - and how he realized he was paying the price. Tomorrow, he decided, he would address the situation neutrally, as any other. Rather than confronting Catherine in a rage - which would probably only amuse her - he would meet her deception with his own.

* * *

An aide walked up to the American prime minister bearing two more telegraphs from his spies overseas. Roosevelt thanked the boy and sent him off for the evening - it was nearing midnight stateside, and he knew he had to sleep soon. He'd be surprised if Napoleon was still awake at this ungodly hour. Even the French king needed to sleep at some point.

Unfolding the telegraph transcripts, Roosevelt skimmed the cursive text. Apparently everything was quiet - the telegraph messages were short reports about where the spies were and their current status as well as their next moves. Nothing too important, Roosevelt decided, and so he folded the papers back up and slipped them into one of the small drawers flanking his central desk. The desk itself was relatively bare - he'd cleaned out most of his paperwork for the day and was just closing up shop now, ready to have his daily evening respite from the hustle-and-bustle of life as the leader of one of the most powerful nations in the world. Yawning, he sleepily called out to one of his aides, and, dutifully, a strong young man appeared to drag the prime minister to his room.

Once within his bedchambers, the prime minister made use of the wood crutches so thoughtfully provided by Catherine of all people. Thinking back to the telegraph his spies had intercepted earlier, Roosevelt couldn't help but feel as though he'd wronged Napoleon by sending it. Clearly the telegraph had no outside context, so Roosevelt himself couldn't judge whether it was a genuine communication or a message that was meant to be intercepted. Perhaps Justinian was playing him, Napoleon, and Catherine for fools, attempting to sow discord between the trio that had become inseparable allies over the past millennia or so. Part of the problem with being eternally youthful - as all leaders were, though no one understood why - was that you got to know your fellow leaders very well. Too well, Roosevelt thought. At times it became a burden to know that the man you're declaring war on was the same man you shared a bottle of sake with a few centuries ago.

He felt it best not to dwell on the topic for too long, as he knew it would only upset him and result in him having a restless sleep, as there was nothing he could do about it now. Perhaps in the morning he'd be able to sort this business out with both Napoleon and Catherine.

As he slipped into his nightclothes and set his spectacles on the bedside table and lifted himself in. He fell asleep quickly, exhausted from a day spent making speeches and signing off on military orders.

* * *

**Author Note: **If the line breaks made the story easier for you to read, you can thank Chocolate Teapot.


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